


my only one

by kim47



Series: summerpornathon 2012 [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Robot Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-12
Updated: 2012-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-09 20:03:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kim47/pseuds/kim47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His hands are different. She built him from memory, not measurement, and they sit differently on her hips, her breasts, the curve of her cheek. But the softness of his touch is achingly familiar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my only one

**Author's Note:**

> For challenge #3 at [summerpornathon](http://summerpornathon.livejournal.com): Non-Human Characters.

Her workroom is hot, even in the dead of winter. The furnace is always burning, steam pouring through her chimney at all hours of the night. The room is in chaos; scrap metal, glass, and wiring litters the floor, the wooden workbenches piled high with strange-looking tools. 

She’s grown fond of it.

*

The creation stands in the corner, a complicated series of leather straps holding it in place. Its shape grows more distinct every day, the form of a man becoming slowly visible.

She covers it when she sleeps.

*

Morgana is the only one who visits her, bringing her meals once a week and attempts to coax a smile out of her. 

She’s genuinely grateful to Morgana for it, but when Morgana asks, as she always does, if she’s sure this is the right thing to do, she turns away. And when Morgana stands to leave, holding her close for a moment, she whispers in her ear.

“Remember your promise.”

*

She dreams of him almost every night.

If she’s lucky, it’s of his bright smile and soft eyes. A mosaic of the good things they shared; sunlight, dances, whisky, nights full of smothered giggles and soft moans. 

Most of the time she’s unlucky. She dreams of battle and bloodshed and promises foolishly begged and even more foolishly kept. She hears herself whisper over and over, “keep him safe, please, for me,” and every time he nods. He never kisses her before he goes.

The war taught her many things. Fear. Anguish. Grief. But, most of all, regret.

*

And so day after day, she builds and polishes, the pieces coming together slowly, order assembled out of chaos. She remembers the things her father taught her, and smiles that her hands are now as work-rough as his had once been.

*

“Are you certain it’s ready?”

“Yes.”

Morgana circles the creation, mingled awe and concern on her face. She runs a finger across the shoulders, up along the neck and cheek.

“How did you do the skin?”

“It’s just a glimmer. It’s really steel and platinum.”

Morgana shoots her a sharp look. “A glimmer? Where did you get that?”

“From Merlin, long ago. Before - everything. It was a gift.”

Morgana doesn’t reply, but drops her hand to rest on the chest.

“And the heart?” she asks quietly.

“Clockwork.”

“I’m not sure - ”

“Morgana, you promised.”

Morgana’s eyes flash for a moment, and she remembers. The war, and what it did Morgana, how betrayal and madness tore at her until she fled, how fearful she is now, how rarely she uses her gifts. Remembers a promise made in fear and despair. “Please,” she adds softly. 

Morgana sighs. “Very well.”

*

They lay her creation on the bed in the corner, and Morgana stands at the foot of it, her hand extended, eyes gold. The incantation is surprisingly simple, but she feels the power sparking off Morgana as she chants.

She can tell the moment it happens, can see the instant it goes from well-worked metal and glass to indefinably _more_. 

*

He awakes suddenly, sitting bolt upright. He looks confused and shaken and gloriously beautiful, and she can’t help the way she starts to cry.

He pulls her to him at once, unquestioningly, and she only sobs harder.

“I brought you back to me, Lance. I had to.”

“I know,” he says. “I’m glad.”

*

His hands are different. She built him from memory, not measurement, and they sit differently on her hips, her breasts, the curve of her cheek. But the softness of his touch is achingly familiar.

It feels strange and a little scary, the cold, hard feel of metal under her fingers contradicting the vision of warm, soft skin. She hadn’t thought this far ahead, obsessed entirely with having him here with her again, but she finds herself helpless. He’s been touching her for an age, as if trying to relearn her, and the aching burn low in her stomach has her almost ready to beg. 

There’s no tongue on her skin, no ragged breath in her ear, but he slides his fingers inside her and starts to move, and it’s better than it’s ever felt. He’s _here_ , he’s close, she can hear him murmuring in her ear, endearments and promises and so much love her heart can’t hold it all. 

He speaks her name, reverent, and she comes sobbing, clutching at his ironwork shoulders, lips pressed to his chest over the heart she made herself.


End file.
